1. The Brosecution Rests
The common room of Delta Kappa Phi was dank with testosterone, sweat, and the tang of last night’s beer. The shades were shut, to block out the kind of late day heat that made it hard to focus. As always in Bro Court, shirts were optional, and most bros had ditched theirs in favor of maximum skin contact. Tan backs gleamed in the dim light—the kind of easy, abundant muscle that made the college gym look like just high school. There were enough cocky grins to power the campus WiFi for a year.
Tacked to the wall was a repurposed lawn sign, four truths scrawled across strips of tape in sloppy sharpie handwriting:
IN THIS HOUSE WE BELIEVE:
- Consent is king—everything else is negotiable.
- No skipping leg day.
- We stan a slut—orientation irrelevant.
- Bro Code is law—except when it’s not.
At the front, behind a makeshift bench constructed from a door and two stacks of textbooks, Judge Chadwick—third-year, pre-law, giant pink dildo-gavel in hand, robes open over his own bare chest and boxers—presided.
“Order in the court!” Chadwick barked, banging the silicone gavel with three dull thuds. “This is Bro Court, where the jury is always hung.” Six bros in mesh shorts and mismatched socks—the jury itself—snickered and elbowed each other.
Tyler, the defendant, sat hunched in a threadbare La-Z-Boy, his compact wrestler build curled tight, grinding his jaw like he was chewing through a protein bar. His dark hair was damp at the temples—either from nerves or the heat—and he kept tugging at the hem of his shorts, as if he could pull himself out of trouble. He swallowed hard, eyes darting around the room full of seasoned bros who already seemed to know the rules better than he ever could.
Details of the “crime” had already been aired in full, thanks to the brosecution’s recap: Receiving oral favors from another bro’s visiting brother—without proper notification, prior consent, or, worst of all, the courtesy of a group invite. Section 69 of the Bro Code.
Across the room, Chase glowered, arms folded, jaw clenched. He didn’t need to say another word. Everyone knew the case was his beef, and that his and his brother’s reputation were now tangled up with Tyler’s.
The whole thing would’ve been a joke, if not for the way the room pulsed with nervous energy. Bros shifted, feeding off the drama and the charge in the air.
And then there was the house defense.
Durning sat at Tyler’s side, legs spread, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he owned the place. He was the embodiment of a cornfed buck: thick, sunburned, blond hair that refused to lie flat, tank top stretched across his chest, red suspenders snug over husky shoulders. His expression was lazy, almost bored, eyes half-closed.
How he’d gotten through pre-law this far was anyone’s guess.
On the floor at his feet, a beat-up stack of index cards—some blank, some smeared with something dark, one with a visible “DO NOT EAT” printed in marker.
Tyler shifted uneasily, scratching the back of his neck. “Honestly,” he whispered. “I’m just a pledge. I thought I read the Bro Code right. Section 69 sounded like something else, not this… blowjob drama.”
Durning leaned in, an easy grin on his face, as he replied in a hush, “Son, let me tell you—they’re all numbered Section 69. Every damn one of ‘em. It’s the sacred law of this house.”
Chadwick cleared his throat. “The brosecution has made its case. We now call for the defense.”
Durning didn’t move at first. He let the silence stretch, soaking up the collective anticipation. Then, with a slow grin, he straightened up and fixed his gaze on the jury.
“Now, y’all know I ain’t much for fancy talk,” he drawled. “My LSAT score was lower than my bench press. But I do know a thing or two about what’s right. And I know that sometimes a man finds himself in a situation where his mouth’s full before his head catches up.”
A wave of snickers and groans rippled through the room. Tyler flushed, but Durning went on.
“I’ll be brief, your honor. Not because this case is simple—though Lord knows, it is—but because it’s hot as Satan’s pucker in here and I reckon none of us want to sit around debating the vagaries of etiquette when there’s a fridge full of beer waiting.”
There was a round of agreeing grunts.
Durning chuckled, snapping his suspenders with a sharp crack that made a few bros glance up. His pecs flexed on the recoil.
“So let’s get to the bottom of this. I promise, by the time I’m done, every one of you will be begging for a taste of the milk of justice.”
The bros hollered. Tyler’s face went even redder than Durning’s shoulders. The trial was on.
2. The Defense Begins
Durning shuffled his messy stack of index cards. Sweat beaded on his sunburned brow, dripping onto the card labeled “OPENING ARGUMENT (MAYBE).” He cleared his throat slow and deliberate.
“Your Honor, gentlebros of the jury, I’d like to call my first witness—the accused himself: Tyler,” he said with a teasing drawl, pausing just long enough to let the words settle as Tyler shifted uneasily in the La-Z-Boy. “Boy, don’t look so scared. Sit up straight. Spread those shoulders—show off that fine, young form. You wrestle, son?”
Tyler blinked, uncertain. Golden skin, taut muscles, briefs flashing bright blue above the waist of his shorts. His nerves spread his thighs wider than confidence ever could, though a few bros in the jury seemed to take notice.
He caught Chase’s glare for a beat, then looked down quick—too much attention for a guy who just wanted to be invisible.
“Um… yeah. So, it was Saturday. Party weekend. Chase’s brother, Dylan, was visiting. Everyone was hammered. We were playing King’s Cup, and then, uh… next thing I know, Dylan’s on his knees in the downstairs gameroom. Said he wanted to ‘thank me for the beer.’ I didn’t—”
Tyler swallowed hard. “Didn’t know he was Chase’s brother when I handed him the beer. Thought he was, like, some pledge from another house.”
Durning grabbed a random beer bottle off the floor and raised it high. “I submit into evidence: Exhibit A.” He gestured grandly, voice dripping with solemnity. “Let the record show: generosity is a virtue in this house.”
A few bros snorted. One called out, “Hell yeah it is!”
Durning snapped a suspender sharply. “Now, Tyler, boy,” he said, voice slow and serious, “this was in the game room? At any point was it a nintendblow?”
Tyler blinked. “What?”
Durning clarified, “You know—head while gaming?” A beat. “Any platform.”
“No. No! He asked if I wanted a Boris Johnson,” Tyler said, voice steadying. “I thought it was a drink or something. Then he was on me, giving me dome. What was I supposed to do?”
Durning nodded sagely. “Now, did you, at any point, extend an invitation to the rest of the house?”
Tyler shook his head. “No, man. It just… happened. I didn’t even know we had a ‘group invite’ rule until last night.” He turned to the judge. “I’m just a freshman.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the room. Chadwick banged his dildo-gavel for order, but nobody was really paying attention.
Durning shuffled his index cards, found one that said “IMPORTANT?” and squinted at it. “Now, let’s hear from the aggrieved party. Chase, would you mind joinin’ us up here and sharing your version?”
Chase stood, rolling his shoulders. His camo cargo shorts hung so low beneath the perfect speedo tan line sliced across his hips that a hint of dark pubes peered out. He made a show of stretching, the muscles in his back and arms flexing for the room, and a few bros whistled.
He glared at Tyler, then faced the jury, jaw set, lips parted just enough to show off his perfect teeth. “My brother comes to visit, right? Just wants to experience the legendary DKP hospitality. He goes missing for half an hour in the middle of the party, and when he comes back, he’s got—” Chase broke off, glare intensifying, “—this look on his face... I’m like, ‘Bro, what happened?’ His lips were all red and wet looking, brotein on his breath, and next thing I hear is Tyler got his crown polished. And suddenly everybody’s talking about Section 69. I mean, what happened to basic respect?”
“And you? Where were you during all this?”
Chase’s jaw tightened more. “Unemployed.”
“Son?”
“No blow job. No hand job. No job at all. Unemployed.”
The jury heads collectively shook in sympathy, their eyes roaming Chase, caught on the deep V of his abs, and a couple of bros shifted, tightening their shorts.
Durning looked consternated, running a hand over his damp blond brushcut, raised arm revealing a thatch of pale pit hair. His bicep flexed, as if he were thinking hard. “Chase, here at DKP we value consent.” A sly grin spread before a hoot burst out from the sofa. “Would you say your brother was coerced in any way?”
Chase’s eyes flicked away and his jaw tightened. “No.” Finally, in a rough whisper he spat it out, “He’s… he’s a filthy slut.”
A sharp gasp rippled through the room. From the far side of the common area came a low, “Oh damn.”
Judge Chadwick snapped upright, eyes suddenly sharp. He snatched the dildo-gavel off his lap and banged it loudly against the desk. “Let me remind y’all—there will be no slut shaming! In THIS house we stan a slut.”
The room went instantly silent.
“This,” Durning said, slapping a palm on the table, “is grounds for a mistrial.”
He fanned out his cards like a Vegas dealer. He rifled past cards titled “Bust Up a Chifforobe?”, “My Cousin Vinny Defense”, and “You Can’t Handle the Truth”. Finally, he paused, plucked one out, and held it up to the judge with a flourish: “Slut Defense.”
“In the matter of Bro v. Wade, the court found that irresistible slut energy is a recognized threat to bro code everywhere!”
The judge held up a hand to stop him, scanned the card, grimaced. “What’s on this thing?”
Durning’s brow furrowed. He rubbed his thumb in the dark smear on the card and put it in his mouth, sucking gently. He swirled it, licked his lips, savoring it. “Oh—this one’s barbecue sauce, Y’Honor.”
Tyler groaned, burying his face in his hands.
“I left the black frat for this…” Chadwick muttered under his breath, pressing his thumbs against his closed eyes.
Durning grinned, cocky. “I’d like to request summary judgment: not guilty, on account of the brother’s notorious reputation as a… libertine, shall we say....”
The judge didn’t even blink, but lazily slapped the dildo-gavel down. “Denied. Broceed.”
Durning winked at the jury, who were now openly adjusting themselves. “Hold on, boys. We’ll get there.”
And with that, the room’s tension thickened—equal parts amusement and raw, fraternal energy. The defense had only just begun.
3. The Blow-by-Blow
Durning licked his lips, shuffled his cards, and called out, “Your Honor, the defense calls Amir to the stand.”
Amir heaved himself up from slow, lazy push-ups on the common room floor, the pelt of his hairy chest trimmed, muscles pumped under deep sun-kissed skin. He tossed a lazy grin around the room like he was onstage, then settled into a beanbag, sinking in, cracking his neck with an audible pop. Stretching his arms wide, he revealed a faded tattoo sprawled across his bicep—a blazing sun wearing sunglasses, colors blurred. Endless Summer.
One of the pledges whispered to another, “Is he like… thirty?”
Durning leaned down and clapped Amir on the shoulder with an open hand, his southern drawl softening for a second into a fratcent that matched Amir’s vibe. “’Bout damn time, bro. Git ‘er done.”
Amir smirked, nodded, and gave Durning a quick fist bump. “Mahalo, my bro.”
Durning’s voice went low and lazy, but you could hear the grin in it. “‘Mir, you were there. Tell the court what you saw. Give us the blow-by-blow, as it were.”
Amir smirked, cocking his head with an upchin. “Whatever, bro.”
Durning leaned in, voice low and thick. “Let’s set the stage. The brother, Dylan. In your unbiased opinion, how’d he look? Nice lips?”
Amir grinned wide. “Yeah, real plush. Like he could suck the paint off a wall.”
Durning nodded, fingers twitching. “And the hair? Could you get your fingers in it? Get a good grip?”
“Oh hell yeah,” Amir said, mimicking with his extended hands, drawing an imaginary head down onto his crotch. “Thick and blond—real bro mane. You could hold on tight.”
Durning shook his head, chuckling low. “Sounds like a real bro-lita situation, don’t it?”
The jury laughed, Chase shifted in his seat, arms crossed.
Amir’s eyes glinted, feeding off the attention. “Dylan was on his knees, going at Tyler like it was the world’s last cock. Tyler’s head was back, hands in Dylan’s hair, hips pumping. Bro looked like he was seeing stars.”
A murmur rippled through the room, a few bros licking their lips, others palming their bulges.
“The boy, Dylan… was he on just one knee?”
“A Tim Teblow? Nah. Both knees.”
There were nods from the jury.
Durning leaned forward, index cards forgotten. “Let’s get specific for the record. Did Dylan lick the head? Give it a swirly?”
Amir nodded eagerly, grinning wider. “Oh hell yeah. He tongued the slit, real slow—like he was tasting it… savoring it. Then he gave it a full swirly around the crown. You could see Tyler’s toes curl.”
The jury groaned, one bro actually biting his knuckle.
Durning smirked, pacing slowly. “Alright, Amir—how was the wrist action? You know, the jerking part.” He mimicked the motion with a slow, exaggerated twist of his hand.
Amir chuckled, nodding. “Smooth. Steady. Like he knew exactly what he was doin’.”
Durning leaned in, voice dropping an octave. “Did he hold the balls? You gotta hold the balls, son.”
“Oh yeah,” Amir said with a wicked grin. “Both hands sometimes. Firm grip—no slack. Like he wasn’t lettin’ go till he got what he came for.”
The jury leaned in, flushed faces, bulges growing taut.
Durning kept going, voice buttery and relentless. “Was it wet? I mean… good and wet. I know YOU know, ’Mir.” He clapped Amir on the back.
Amir shook his head, emphatic. “Slurping wet. Spit running down his chin. Like, drips falling on Tyler’s thighs. It was so loud, I thought the whole house would hear. Here, it sounded like—” He cupped his hands to his mouth, making a long, obscene schlorping sound, cheeks bulging, tongue flicking out. “Pure sloppy toppy, bro.”
Durning smirked, shifting gears. “So—he put some guac on brother Tyler’s knob?”
Amir slowly smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Yeah.”
He leaned forward and mimicked going down on a cock, making a low, guttural “guac guac guac” sound with his throat.
The room burst into laughter. Several bros squirmed, one hand disappearing into shorts, another just squeezing himself through mesh. Chase sulked.
Durning winked at the jury, barely containing a smirk. “Sounds like a pro. Now—did he go deep?”
Didn’t gag, just held there and hummed. Tyler’s hands gripped the arms of his chair tight, moaning loud enough to shake the whole damn room.”
“I hate to be indelicate,” Durning added, shaking his head. “But the law demands I ask… while he was choking it down, did he… lick the balls?”
Amir smirked. “Windshield wiper? Sure did.” He stuck out his own tongue, sliding it back and forth to demonstrate.
A low chorus of “Fuck…” and “Jesus…” spread through the room. Chadwick gripped the dildo gavel so hard his knuckles paled.
Durning waited, wiping his wet brow, cheeks a deeper shade of red. “Hoo boy, it’s getting hot in here… or maybe that’s just me.”
The room broke into ragged laughter and nods.
Durning let the silence stretch, then went for the kill: “Did Tyler finish? Did Dylan swallow?”
Amir’s grin was pure filth. “Tyler finished hard. I saw his whole body tense up, hips twitching. Dylan didn’t stop, just kept sucking, swallowed every drop of that throatmeal—didn’t spill a bit. When he pulled off, he licked his lips clean. Tyler couldn’t even talk, just slumped back, totally spent.”
A ripple of excitement buzzed through the crowd. Even Chase, tight-jawed and red-faced, couldn’t help shifting, his shorts tented like they were hanging on a peg, waistband low on his hips.
Durning turned to Chadwick, hands resting behind his back. “At this point, y’honor, I’d like to enter a plea of insanity.”
Tyler shot up. “WHAT?”
Durning gave him a mischievous side eye. “Because this brother Dylan was insane for our bro Tyler’s hog.”
Tyler put his face in his hands. “Can I throw myself on the mercy of the Court?”
Chadwick didn’t even bother with the gavel. “Denied. Broceed.”
Durning finally leaned back, fanning himself with limp cards, letting the moment hang. “No further questions for this witness, Your Honor—unless someone needs a towel.”
He looked around the room, eyes twinkling. “Now, just so we’re thorough—get the whole wet, throbbing inch by inch of the thing—who else here witnessed the, ah, event?”
A dozen hands shot up, eager.
Durning’s pecs flexed as he snapped his suspenders. “Looks like we just getting started, boys.”
No one laughed this time. The whole house was perched on the edge, waiting for release.
Durning, satisfied, let them stew, knowing the real show was coming next.
4. Oral Arguments
The common room buzzed with the accounts of a dozen bros who’d already spilled every filthy detail and every guttural sound from that infamous night. Sweat slicked their backs as the heat pressed in. The jury twisted in their seats, eyes glazed, hands twitching like they couldn’t wait to act.
The brosecution tried to object twice, grumbling that these were facts already nailed harder than a girl on prom night. But Judge Chadwick, eyes distant and glazed in a horny haze, just said, “Court’ll accept it.” His lip hung open, eyes drooping.
Every testimony piled on more tension. The room grew hotter, tighter. Now, with the jury hungrier than ever, Durning stood center stage. He pulled a half-full protein shake from behind the chair, took a long, loud slurp—lid off, straw at maximum bro volume—then grinned. “Alright, now we’s fueled for justice.”
His voice was thick as he smacked his lips, but his eyes glittered. “In the spirit of Section 69, and for the sake of justice, this court will now observe a full and fair recreation of the events. Chase, present yourself for the record. And Tyler… on your knees.”
Chase flushed but obeyed, dropping into the La-Z-Boy, erection straining at the fabric of his camo shorts. Tyler dropped to his knees, his own shorts marked with a damp map. He looked at Durning who gave a slow nod.
“Start slow,” Durning said, voice low and teasing. “Mimic it—show us how Dylan done it. No need to rush.”
Tyler parted lips, tongue flicking at the tight fabric containing Chase’s cock. He leaned in, hesitant, then lapped it with the flat of his tongue.
Chase seemed to gulp. The tent in his shorts pulsed, pushing up to meet Tyler’s lick.
“Feel that heat?” Durning grinned. “Wanna go further? Chase—look at those cherry lips. Help your boy out. Shorts down, man. Let’s see that prize.”
Chase’s eyes twitched, but he tugged waistband low, letting the cargo shorts slide down his tan legs. His cock sprang free, thick and glistening with precum, just inches from Tyler’s mouth.
“Oh fuck,” Durning groaned, tossing his index cards over his shoulder with a flourish. “Forget the paperwork. Let the record show: oral arguments are best made without pants.”
The room held its breath, but Durning moved along. “There we go. Tyler, get your mouth on it. Show us what started this whole mess.”
Tyler gave a slow lick along the slick shaft. His tongue traced slow, deliberate patterns, swirling around the crown, dipping deep into the slit, dragging a trail of hot spit down to the manscaped balls.
The jury leaned in, hooked and helpless as the tension snapped tighter.
Durning’s eyes gleamed, voice soft. “That’s it, son. Use your hands too—don’t just ride the tongue. Give these gentlemen the full show.”
Tyler’s hands wrapped the base, squeezing gentle pulses as lips sank deeper. The slick pop of his mouth pulling away echoed loud, followed by a wet swallow that had the jury leaning in as if they could taste it themselves.
Durning pressed in close, eyes glowing. “That’s right. Get him nice and wet. Let those boys see how it went down.”
Tyler’s mouth stretched, lips sliding like silk over Chase’s cock, letting his spit lube the length of it. Tyler pushed at his own waistband, shoving shorts down enough to bare himself. The wet schlorp and slurp of the blowjob, and the smack of Tyler’s hand beating his own cock, filled the room.
Chase’s abs clenched, fingers just grazing Tyler’s hair.
A few bros shifted, gulping, hands in their shorts, digging in.
Durning’s hand hovered, nearly brushing the back of Tyler’s head—coaxing. His voice dropped to a growl: “Don’t hold back, son. Get him deep. Show me how Dylan done it—make it messy.”
Tyler obeyed—lips sliding down the thick shaft till his nose buried against the scented bush. His tongue flicked fast along sensitive skin, then swirled slow, soaking the whole length and swallowing it.
The room thickened, pulses quickening as the demonstration went on.
Seeing Chase’s body tensed, hips twitching involuntarily as he fought the building wave, Durning’s hand hovered, just a breath away from Tyler’s head, fingers gliding in time with his bobbing rhythm. “Don’t you stop now, son, don’t you dare stop. I’m tryin’ to get you off here, and you’d better get him off if you know what’s good for you.”
Durning’s eyes locked onto Chase’s, his voice dipping into a slow, provocative drawl. “Now, Chase—look at you. Right now, that boy’s got your cock deep in a hot, wet throat, pumpin’ like he owns it. You gonna stop him? Pause the action just to go ask for permission?”
He leaned in closer, the grin spreading wider as he let the silence stretch, watching Chase fight the urge behind a clenched jaw and tightened fists.
“Tell me, brother,” Durning teased, voice thick with amusement, “does the law really say you gotta call timeout when your cock’s being worshiped? Or does it say you ride that wave ‘til the drop?”
Chase’s breath caught, muscles trembling under the weight of temptation, abs clenching and hips rolling forward on their own accord.
His eyes squeezed shut, voice a whisper but clear as a bell: “St… don’t… don’t stop… don’t stop…” His hands tangled in Tyler’s hair, threading fingers through sweat-damp curls.
Tyler doubled down, lips sealed, humming around the base. Chase’s control snapped; he bucked, hips jerking, body shuddering as he shot—a thick, heavy load, in surge after surge. Tyler choked, tried to gulp it all down, snorting as cum filled his mouth, spurting from the corners.
Durning’s gaze never wavered, voice a firm whisper now: “That’s it. Suck him like a man dying of thirst. Swallow it down, boy.”
Tyler’s throat bobbed in hard, wet gulps—struggling but determined. When the torrent passed, he pulled back, gasping, cum-thick spit shining on his mouth and chin.
Durning stepped in without missing a beat. He caught a thick, slick bead from Tyler’s puffy bottom lip on the edge of one card. He let the light catch the glistening pearl as he held the card high, for everyone to see.
“Exhibit B, Your Honor—the evidence in question.”
Tyler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed his own cock and stroked himself hard, three rough times, and came in thick, desperate spurts across the carpet, his body quaking.
Durning winked at the sticky mess beneath him. “And let’s mark that as Exhibit C.”
The jury sat wide-mouthed, a few bros groaning at the sight, hands pressed on their own thick bois.
Even Judge Chadwick stared, slack-jawed, his hand drifting from the dildo-gavel to his own throbbing erection, forgotten in his lap.
Durning stood over the chaos, flushed and hard, snapped his suspenders over the heft of his pecs, voice solicitous: “The defense will make its closing argument. If y’all ready.”
5. The Verdict
Durning stood center stage, the heat of the room wrapping around him. With deliberate slowness, he peeled off the wet tank top that clung to him like glue, suspenders dropping to his sides. He let it fall to the floor with a soggy thud.
The room practically gasped as his sunburned pecs flexed, the angry stripes left by his snapping suspenders crossing his reddened nipples. A golden trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts, catching the light and drawing hungry gazes.
His gaze swept over Chase and Tyler—both wrecked, cheeks flushed and breaths shallow from everything that’d gone down—then turned to the jury.
“Look, I’m just a simple country bro,” Durning drawled, “but it seems to me just common sense this whole mess ain’t about who threw the first punch or broke the rules. No. It’s about what any decent bro does when temptation knocks hard.”
He rubbed a heavy pec, slow, teasing, flexing the muscle until it rippled under his palm. The jury shifted in their seats, breaths hitching, eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and anticipation. You could almost hear the collective drool pooling in their mouths.
“Even Chase—yeah, the guy throwing stones—lost his cool right here in bro court. You saw him get caught up. If the one pointing fingers can’t keep his dick in check, how can we hold Tyler to a higher standard?” He nodded at Chase, who shifted in his shorts, resting on his half-spent semi.
Durning finally produced the best defense any bro court could offer. “Because, let’s face it—we all know—any bro would’a done the same. Temptation that fierce? No man’s coming out clean.”
A low murmur of grudging agreement rippled through the crowd. Bros nodded, grinned, some openly stroking the tents in their shorts.
“And now, since everything’s even-steven,” Durning continued, sweat streaking his sides, “and these boys here is done with their misbehavin’ and infractions and grudges…” He turned to Tyler and Chase, voice dropping. “You is done, ain’t you, boys?”
Tyler mumbled, “Yes, sir.” Chase nodded curtly. Durning gave both a slow nod and a wink.
“Then I say, in the spirit of brotherhood and fraternity, let’s put all this behind us.” He raised his hands like the lawgiver himself.
The whole house was brought right to the edge. Bodies tilted forward, breaths held tight, hands twitching, needing something to grab onto. There wasn’t a dry crotch in the house.
Judge Chadwick raised the dildo-gavel, robes swinging open to tightened boxers. He scanned the jury, one by one, heads nodding eagerly, eyes bright and wide, bodies coiled with anticipation.
“This court,” Chadwick declared, voice cracking with excitement, “is here to uphold the sacred bro law of pleasure—the unshakable right to get off, so long as everyone consents. And with that said, on the grounds that any bro would’ve done the same—the defendant is found… not guilty.”
He brought the dildo gavel down with a booming thud that echoed off the walls.
The room erupted. Beers popped open, cheers crashed like thunder.
Bros surged, no longer content to merely watch. The salty mix of sweat, cheap beer and the sound of smacking lips filled the air.
Judge Chadwick, dildo gavel abandoned, was lost—a mouth latched onto his neck, hands roaming under his robe, fingers digging into his chiseled abs ands into his boxers.
Amir lay face down on the carpet, two pledges under him, his boardshorts around his hairy thighs.
Tyler caught Durning’s eye and grinned, cheeks flushed. “Best verdict ever,” he muttered, seeing his defense attorney with new eyes.
Durning’s grin deepened. With a slow, teasing flourish, he let his shorts fall. His cock sprang free—thick, swollen, dripping a long string of pre-cum. The sight of it made Tyler lick his lips. Chase noticed too.
“There is just the matter of my legal fees. The Quid Bro Quo, as it were.”
Before Tyler could respond, Durning’s hand guided the back of his head, pulling him down onto his slick, hard cock. “You’re gonna go far in this house, son,” he gasped, as his length sank into that sweet, warm mouth.
Tyler’s hands gripped Durning’s hips, steadying himself, while Chase’s mouth latched onto Durning’s—tongue sliding wet and slow, hands roaming, one grazing a nipple still tender from the snapping suspenders, sending a sharp, delighted shiver through his body.
“Mind the teats, boys,” Durning rasped, between shudders.
Around them, the bro code rewrote itself in hungry mouths, aching cocks and broken rules.
Judge Chadwick—gasping as he pulled himself out of a standing blowvation, now wearing nothing but his half-fallen robe and a solitary sock—banged the bent dildo-gavel with a decisive smack.
“Bro Court is officially adjourned—’til the next puck forgets the group chat invite.”
END
Thanks for reading. If you'd like to be notified of new releases, let me know at [email protected].
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
